Warblegrub and the Forbidden Planet by Andrew Barlow Page A

onto the map table but the Sergeant crashed into a bank of screens and computers and the Colonel was left hanging from the periscope. Then the submarine was pushed, nose first, into the trench. It was fortunate for all on board that 395 managed to seal the pressure doors and isolate them from the nose, which was crushed like a tin can when they hit the bottom.
    The submarine keeled over and came crashing down, finally settling on the floor of the trench more or less the right way up. The lights flickered and failed but, after moments of terrifying pitch dark, they were suddenly bathed in the dull red glow of the emergency lights.
    First on her feet, the Sergeant raced to the crew’s quarters, hurriedly assembled the others and led them to the escape hatch. A wall of lockers held more than enough diving gear for everyone, and when the Colonel and 395 arrived, the soldiers were already scrambling into suits and securing their waterproof backpacks.
    “The design’s simple; almost exactly the same as your basic spacesuit.” The Sergeant demonstrated the breathing apparatus that fitted easily over their helmets. “Remember we’re deep down, so we’ll ascend very slowly!”
    Once they had tested the equipment, Peter opened the escape hatch and clambered up the ladder. One by one, the rest of the company followed him into the cramped chamber and when the inner hatch was closed behind them, he opened the outer one.
    Last to emerge, Private 1805 was surrounded by a ring of his comrades but by some sixth sense he looked up, straight into Fardelbear’s grinning maw. Before he could scream, Fardelbear snatched him up and was gone, shooting away into the murky distance like a torpedo, a trail of bubbles stretching out behind him.
    Bunching together in shock and fear, the company rose slowly from the trench, hearts in their mouths. Knives ready, the Redeemers primed with miniaturised torpedoes, they watched every shadow and every movement. Sharks were circling overhead, sleek and menacing silhouettes against the sunlight, but the divers scarcely noticed them.
    “Which way?” asked the Colonel, as the light grew around them.
    They were drawing level with the seabed but as 395 tried to get his bearings, Fardelbear struck again. Appearing suddenly from the shadows below, he ploughed through the company and scattered them. 207’s torpedo trailed after him, exploding in the distance. Held together by the Colonel and the Sergeant, the company regrouped, but before they had left the trench he struck yet again and grabbed another soldier. Once more the Redeemers fired too late and Fardelbear vanished with his victim.
    “Hold formation!” the Colonel ordered, as they scattered again, and though most obeyed, several kept swimming, overcome with terror.
    207 slotted another torpedo into the Redeemer. “Running low!”
    “Better make these count then,” said Peter.
    As they readied their weapons, Private 312 saw Fardelbear’s red eyes below and yelled a warning. Peter and 207 fired in quick succession and though Fardelbear dodged one torpedo, he darted right into the path of the other. The missile failed to explode but it carried him back down into the trench and slammed him into the cliff wall. Stunned, he tumbled down the rock face and the falling boulders inspired the Sergeant, who ordered Peter and 207 to fire their remaining torpedoes. Soon a great section of the trench wall was collapsing and an avalanche poured down on top of Fardelbear. When it ceased, both he and the submarine were buried deep.
    Crowding round the Sergeant, Peter and Private 207, the survivors congratulated each other. Those who had fled began to return and, though the Colonel scowled, as yet he said nothing. But when Sarah failed to appear, he refused to search for her or wait a moment longer. Peter, however, refused to obey and his comrades waited, hearts in their mouths, while the Colonel eyed him dangerously.
    “With respect, Sir,” the Sergeant